


To Make a Man Respectable

by kashinoha



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Childersass, Footnotes, Norrell is a little bitch, Pre-Series, typical British snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At eighteen, Childermass got it in his right mind to mix a little magic into his pickpocketing. Unfortunately for him, his first target happened to be Gilbert Norrell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make a Man Respectable

**Author's Note:**

> According to canon, Childermass started working for Norrell in 1790. His mother managed the child pickpockets in the late 1770s, which estimates Childermass's birth year at around 1772-3. At least according to the wiki. So, it is likely John Childermass was around 17-18 when he was employed by Norrell. 
> 
> I told myself I wasn't going to write in Susanna Clarke's style, but it just sort of happened. Silly footnotes and all. Writing in this style does nothing for my propensity to over-word things, so I apologize if this is a bit dense. Hope you enjoy reading, because I certainly enjoyed writing!

**To Make a Man Respectable**

All characters © Susanna Clarke

 

 

 

There were all sorts of ways to rob a gentleman, though few of which John Childermass particularly cared for. They involved a lot of noise and seduction, typically with soppy, low-budget theatre histrionics. None which were suitable (in Childermass’s opinion) to an art that should be quiet and slick.

On occasion he employed the services of Henry, a particularly loquacious stable boy from Salisbury Street, to engage the target in a lengthy conversation on the state of imports or another while Childermass slipped an index and middle finger into the pocket of the unfortunate gentleman. There was nothing more satisfying to him than purse-snatching, at one time. Yet, after his mother passed and he grew older, Childermass saw less and less the thrill of stealing. Now he only did it for the children.

Childermass detested Julys in Yorkshire. For a country that was supposed to be cold and wet, the summers were abysmally hot and damp. Food spoiled and insects of all ilk came out of hiding and feasted delightedly upon the flesh. Worse still, a man could easily feel his purse being relieved through one layer of dress, which made light clothing the bane of all pickpockets alike.

It was a miserable day at the start of July. Over a decade later and people were still complaining of America’s independence holiday; as such people in Yorkshire underwent great efforts to avoid the American patriotic colors until the week was out. Childermass was dressed in the same dress he wore every day, since he only possessed two outfits. A faded cream-white blouse with too many wrinkles and loose brown pants, something smudged over one knee, was his ensemble of choice. His shoes were scuffed to the point where their original color was unrecognizable, though Childermass took little notice of these sorts of things.

No, the sort of thing Childermass took interest in was magic. Though magic was considered a seedy business, he had nothing to fear from damaging his reputation, which had been damned a long time ago. Magic, like sodomy or proper chamber pot care, was something no one spoke about. It only chose to manifest itself in the occasional leaf of fogswart over peoples’ beds, as one example, or a pinch of salt over the shoulder in the quiet of their own homes.1

Some years ago Childermass had had a dream of a King in Black. The King of the Ravens, John Uskglass. People knew who John Uskglass was, naturally. Here in the North there were idioms and expressions that stemmed directly from his influence and times of magic, but they were often said on impulse and people no longer knew why they said them or what they meant.

After dreaming of the King in Black, Childermass had begun to see him in every shadow. It had shaken him thoroughly, then just a boy, and from that point forward he had taken on a silent obsession with John Uskglass. It had been easy to nick a book from the shop behind Ambridge’s bakery titled _Perceptual Deceptions and Magicks_ by Bartley Brone 2. The spine was worn thin and stringy, and the pages were like yellow wafers. Childermass had borrowed it indefinitely.

It was this book that Childermass now held in his hands while sweat dripped down his neck and dampened his shirtsleeves. It was hot, he was bored, and the children were low on comestibles.

Any man of wit knew that when you mixed boredom with a person of ample intelligence, unfortunate things tended to play out. Today, Childermass had decided to cast a spell that would make a man’s purse vanish. Brone happened to list such a spell in Chapter VI: _an Introduction to Dematerialization, Dispersal, & Displacement._ According to him, one simply needed a quarter-spoon of fresh mulch, blank parchment, and a compartment of the sorts in which the item in question should reappear. The only problem was that Childermass had never attempted a spell before in his life, but he considered such matters irrelevant.

When the clock tower struck noon, Childermass headed into the town square with the intention to scope out various prospects at the market. Lunch-time in the market was a most unpleasant mass of body heat, sweats, and oils that one should avoid if one can, but Childermass navigated the crowds with ease. He was lean enough to slip through the people and just dirty enough that they gave him a wide berth.

It took him less than a half-hour to find the perfect catch. No one could have been more sorry-looking than this man in front of the book dealer’s stand. He was somewhere in the middle of twenty and thirty, small in stature, and clearly looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. His jacket was an autumn jacket the color of unripe blackberries and rather scratchy looking. Sweat rolled unabashedly down the man’s face and into his collar. There was an apparent bulge in his jacket that undoubtedly held his purse. Childermass supposed he should be thankful that the man was wearing so many layers, since it would make his job a great deal easier. As Childermass observed, the small man began to argue with the book dealer emphatically.

As per Brone’s instructions, Childermass sprinkled the mulch in a quincunx over the parchment, drew a diamond shape with his finger, and muttered something that was one part Latin, two parts something else. The sweat on his arms seemed to tingle then, as though an invisible feather was running along his skin. It was elating. For the first time in a long while, Childermass felt truly alive.

He opened his eyes when the sensation passed, only to scowl in disappointment. The bulge had not disappeared from the small man’s jacket. Childermass considered trying the spell again, but he had run out of mulch.

Ah, well. He would have to do things the traditional way.

The man, having decided that the book dealer would be of no help to him, was now poring over a shelf stacked with thick, dusty tomes that looked about as boring as the man himself did. Childermass crept closer, doing what he did best, and carefully extracted the man’s purse behind his back.

It was of no little surprize to Childermass when the small man’s hand closed over his arm.

“If you wish to rob a man, at least do it properly,” the small man said, turning around and surveying Childermass’s arm in his hand with disgust. “Honestly.”

Childermass, still reeling over the fact that he had been caught, did not move. The man released Childermass’s arm and pulled out his purse.

“Well? How much do you want, boy? Will a guinea suffice to leave me be?”

Childermass came to his senses enough to shake his head. “I do not want your money,” he said. “Rather, how…?”

The small man squinted at him. He had eyes the color of a clear sky in the early morning, blue and piercing. Fiery, Childermass thought, but cool. Shifty.

“I happen to be quite good at what I do,” said Childermass, with no humility whatsoever. “You should not have detected my attempt to pick your pocket.” He grimaced at the word _attempt_ like it was curdled milk.

“Perhaps it was not your attempt to pick my pocket I detected,” replied the man.

Childermass frowned. “Come again?” The small man held up a finger, signifying that he had not finished.

 _“But,_ perhaps, your frankly appalling attempt of Brone’s Folly.”

Childermass gaped at him.

“I could sense that a mile away,” the man continued, pocketing his purse and subsequently folding his arms. It made him look like a sullen child who has just been denied a slice of seed cake. “Next time, try something a little less obvious. Thorndyke’s _tenues_ 3 spell is rather effective.” He pursed his lips over this last part, as if it had escaped without meaning to.

Childermass knew he was in a lot of trouble, yet could not stop himself from smirking. “You study magic, sir?”

The small man had begun to sweat again. He pulled out a handkerchief and began mopping his brow, looking most uncomfortable. “I have an interest in it, yes,” he said around his ‘kerchief.

“What, a respectable gentlemen such as yourself?” Childermass asked, with a snort. At this, the man drew himself up to his full height, which was not much taller than Childermass himself.

“Certainly more respectable than my present company,” he said, eyeing Childermass with a sniff. “I have half a mind to hand you over to the nearest authorities.”

“That is what people generally do with criminals,” Childermass agreed. “So why have you hesitated?” The man was silent for a moment. He fidgeted with the ends of his ‘kerchief, internal struggle evident in his scrunched brow and pursed lips. Finally, he said, “I have need of an assistant.”

Childermass did not laugh often. Though two years shy of twenty he had developed the bone-dry wit and composure of an older man. This, however, had him snickering, then guffawing, then outright howling. Passerby glanced in their direction briefly. The small man looked as if he might sink into a hole in the cobblestones and be lost forever.

“And you think to ask me?” wheezed Childermass, when he had mostly recovered. He wiped the corners of his eyes. “You are quite daft, sir.”

“Tell me,” the small man said, “why do you steal?” It sounded like a non sequitur.

With a final sigh, Childermass sobered. “To be frank, it is not for my sake,” he answered. Might as well play the pity card. “It is for the children without homes or mothers that consist of my remaining family.”

The small man’s expression was unreadable. After a moment his blue eyes met Childermass’s. “Come with me and I can guarantee financial support and shelter for all of your children,” he said.

Childermass’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me sir, but again, I must ask—what is it you want of me?”

“Your half-attempt at magic was not bad. I was thinking to take on an apprentice,” admitted the man. Because Childermass found the man disagreeable (as he generally did with most wealthy folk), he was apt to refuse. Even if the prospect of magic interested him.

“I was never a schoolboy,” he said.

The small man considered. “Manservant, then.” Childermass only raised an eyebrow.

“Very well. Consider this,” the man said. “If you agree to serve me I can shew you what you want most. Because you see,” he said, looking calm for the first time that afternoon, “I do not just study magic. I practise it.”

Childermass folded his arms. “I do not believe you,” he said.

“How else could I have sensed Brone’s Folly, then?” challenged the man, his temporary calm vanishing.

“Well do some magic then,” said Childermass. He opened his palms. “Go on.”

The small man wrinkled his nose and replied, “This is too crowded an area. What should happen to me, if you choose to swoon?”

“I would not swoon,” Childermass said, looking offended. He tilted his head at the small man. “However, I would be a fool to deny the support of my brothers and sisters of the streets, so let me accept your offer with one final question. What exist your thoughts on the Raven King?”

Instantly, the small man paled, as if he had tasted something sour. “That _man,”_ he said quickly, “has no place in my studies. We shall speak of him only in passing, if at all, and you will not broach the matter again. Is that understood?”

Childermass had seen too many bitter men to not recognize the expression on the small man’s face. It was not just bitterness but scorn. Scorn came from reverence or infatuation, which piqued Childermass’s intuition. A self-proclaimed practical magician who hated the Raven King? There was something more here. So Childermass did the only sensible thing. He bowed. It was his first time giving a proper bow, and his hair fell into his eyes.

“John Childermass, at your service.”

“Gilbert Norrell,” the small man replied, attempting to smile but coming off with something more like a grimace.

Well this, Childermass thought, this should make an interesting job indeed.

 

 

 

Agrace was one of the Raven King’s three kingdoms and was said to reside on the far side of Hell. Childermass firmly believed that there was an additional country, probably to the east of that somewhere, which was reserved solely for experiences such as his first week with Gilbert Norrell.

The man was as every bit whiny and petulant as Childermass predicted. Norrell had the disposition of a man who has never had to do a thing on his own and therefore had no concept of how taxing doing things actually was. To him, taxing was having his tea go cold, or the tingling in his foot from sitting on a chair for too long. His greatest talent was finding something to complain about, and then using his extensive vocabulary to complain about it at great length to anyone who was around (which happened to be Childermass). Childermass found himself wondering how he had gotten himself into such a situation, even though, deep down, he knew the answer.

At least the house was nice. For the most part.

Hurtfew Abbey was an impressive residence, yet for all its comforts it spoke quietly of solitude and loneliness. All of the décor was a decade or so out of style, as if the previous owners had up and left one day, never to return. Norrell did not mention any family, and Childermass never asked.

The house was always cold, particularly at nighttime. Childermass discovered this odd drop in temperature when he developed the habit of waking up in the middle of most nights. He would rouse with no rhyme or reason, only to find nothing amiss save for the fact that his breath was visible. As it was the middle of the summer, the matter continuously vexed him.

Norrell’s staff consisted of a servant boy named Addy who was far too young to be able to do anything of real value, the senior valet, who was far too old to be able to do anything except drive a carriage, and a Frenchwoman of middle age who walked with a cane. The Frenchwoman’s name was Ms Cauchemar, and her mother had apparently worked as a maid in the court of Louis XIV, the Sun King. When she and Norrell discovered, with some surprize, that Childermass knew his letters, she became determined to teach him French.

Childermass was one of those highly intelligent lads—brilliant, yet turned sarcastic and indolent by the fact that the only things they could do with such intelligence was serve men stupider than themselves—and therefore more troublesome than they were worth. Norrell, for reasons beyond our mortal realm, had convinced himself that Childermass was worth the trouble. Childermass had an excellent memory and a knack for information, even if he did dress somewhere between a bellboy and a vagabond. Norrell tried (with little success) to have Ms Cauchemar teach Childermass proper dress and decorum.

“I care little for social affairs,” he told Childermass. “You shall attend them in my stead. I beg of you, deign to at least _look_ like a gentleman. And for God’s sake, Childermass, cut your hair or tie it back! I do not know how you can see in such a state.”

As typical of a man with more money than friends, he had next to no skill in expressing his needs to other people. It was a bit sad, really. In a few decades Norrell would probably end up as alone as he was now, only twice as sour. He was young, barely ten years Childermass’s senior, and yet he was already as cantankerous as an old man with gout, perhaps due to the fact that he spent more time in his study than he did sleeping.

Had it not been for the rather ample cheque written to the city hall in York to fund a children’s home, Childermass would have run then and there, taking whatever he pleased with him.

Additionally, Childermass admitted, the premise of seeing actual magic done prompted him to remain. He slid comments of the Raven King into his conversations with Norrell with the careful ease of a gambler sliding an extra ace into a playing deck. Each time he was dismissed, all the while growing more and more curious. He waited for Norrell to cast a spell or shew some inclination of enchantment or otherworldliness.

So far though, Childermass was disappointed.

However, it had not been in jest when Norrell claimed to study magic. The library was filled with hundreds of books on histories and spells, most of the likes Childermass had never even heard of. Such a collection would surely put the royal manuscript collection out of business, yet Norrell never missed an opportunity to gripe. One day he summoned Childermass to the study, claiming that the shelves needed to be dusted again.

“Cannot you do this with magic?” asked Childermass.

“I would never use magic for something as petty as housework,” miffed Norrell, looking as if Childermass had greatly offended him by suggesting such a thing.

“Ah,” said Childermass. Norrell must have detected the sarcasm in Childermass’s voice, for he shook his head and walked over to a nearby shelf. He tutted. “I do not see how they become so dirty,” he said. “They were dusted only days ago.”

“Books naturally acquire much dust,” Childermass observed.

“Ha, not my books! Ms Cauchemar, I am afraid, cannot do a proper dusting if the outcome of the war depended on it. Look at this,” Norrell complained, running a finger along a shelf. “I think I shall sneeze!”

So Childermass set to dusting the books (which actually were quite dusty). He himself sneezed several times in the process. Norrell gave him a look which said, _see?_

The library was a most peculiar thing. “Rule one,” Norrell had told Childermass on his first day, “on no account attempt to go to the library alone.” Childermass thought it a trifle warning, since he could not actually find the library. It was only when Norrell shewed him the way that Childermass knew where it actually sat in the house—and afterwards he felt quite foolish for not spotting it in such an obvious place.4

It did not occur to him that the placement of Norrell’s library and the corridors that led to it were deliberately obscure.

Childermass, on occasion, deliberated stealing some of Norrell’s books while the other man slept. However, this presented three problems. One, Norrell spent at least eight hours every day in his study, and rarely concluded before the moon was high in the sky. Two, Norrell was as anal about his cataloguing as he was about everything else, so any missing tomes would unlikely escape his attention. And three, Childermass actually did manage to pilfer a book from the study when Norrell was in other words occupied. Alas, the book proved to be so dull that Childermass returned it not an hour after borrowing it.

 

 

 

We shall dedicate a section now to the white-faced cat, simply because the trouble it caused for all parties at Hurtfew Abbey was quite significant.

It was sometime at the tail end of August when it appeared. Addy was the first to notice it in the stables and chased the poor creature around for the better part of the morning until it darted out from the stables and into the house. He ran to Childermass, claiming that there was a cat in the house, yet despite upturning every room Childermass could not find any sort of feline presence.

The next day Childermass was woken out of a light doze by Norrell hollering. The man only hollered at things like spiders and mice and those crawling little insects with hundreds of tiny legs, so Childermass took his time in making his way to the study. When he arrived, Norrell was backed up against the wall and Addy’s cat was cleaning itself idly atop one of the armchairs.

“Childermass,” Norrell gasped. He pointed to the cat. “Explain this!”

“I believe it is a cat, sir,” Childermass said dryly.

Norrell shot him a look. “Well, what is it doing in my study?”

“Perhaps it is has come to see some magic,” replied Childermass.

“Enough. I want it gone,” Norrell snapped. He lifted his shirtsleeve and blinked rapidly. “Look, I am already breaking out in a rash!”

Childermass made no move to shoo the creature away. “Have you considered that a cat would be effective in removing the vermin?” he asked.

Since Norrell hated mice more than he detested cats, he folded his arms and replied, begrudgingly, “Fine. But I absolutely forbid it in my study.” Childermass bent low and made a clicking noise in his throat. The cat jumped off the armchair and sashayed out of the room. Its tail gave a flick that, at least to Childermass, seemed rather smug. Childermass predicted he and the cat would get along just fine.

The cat became a regular resident at Hurtfew Abbey, coming and going as it pleased. It was independent and clever. A bit like Childermass, in its own way, only with more whiskers. Its fur was completely black save for a splash of white at the muzzle, which prompted Addy to christen it the awful name of Cream-face. The cat always found its way into Norrell’s library, which it had taken an apparent fondness to. How it got there was a mystery, but, as Childermass predicted, the number of mice in the nooks and crannies of the house began to dwindle.

Unfortunately, anything of a white nature also became covered in tiny black hairs.

 

 

 

“Childermass, I asked for the post two hours ago.”

“Really, sir? I do not recall.”

Norrell looked up from somewhere in the middle of _De Tractatu Magicarum Linguarum_ 5 with a frown. Childermass was not of absent mind, yet Norrell could only guess at an ulterior motive.

“You also failed to set the dining table the other day, and I heard you tricked the Addy boy into doing the polishing for you,” Norrell said. “Not to mention you refuse to dress like a proper servant,” he added, gesturing to Childermass’s absence of a jacket and waistcoat. “Is there any reason you are intentionally shirking your duties to me?”

Childermass stepped further into the room and leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Perhaps,” he said, “If you were to shew me a bit of magic, I would be more inclined to complete my tasks.”

“Bribery does not become you, Childermass,” Norrell said, scowling. “If I do magic it will be of my own accord in my own time.”

“I could say the same of my chores,” replied Childermass, a grin curling his lips. “But it is not my wish to be intractable.”

“Then you are failing spectacularly.”

“At least tell me more about the Raven King,” Childermass proposed. A strand of hair fell into his eyes, but he took no notice. “I have pondered for two months, yet I cannot conclude why you detest him so greatly.”

Norrell put a marker in his book and closed the cover with a sigh. “I will say this only once. You are young and harbor foolish idealism toward a figure who neither cares about you nor the prospect of magic returning to this country,” he began. In the waning afternoon light he looked faded and tired and quite old. “Do not make my mistakes.”

“What has John Uskglass done to offend you so?” asked Childermass.

“Like I said,” Norrell replied irritably, “he abandoned us all. Thanks to him, England has been dead of magic for three centuries.”

“Surely, with all the magic you know, can you not resuscitate it?” Norrell gave him a dark look.

“It only seems to me that your dislike of the King is personal,” observed Childermass. “Perhaps you attempted to summon him at one point, or went in search of his famous Book…?”

“It does not matter what I did!” Norrell snapped. “I wish to speak of this no further. You are dismissed, Childermass.”

“Dismissed as in fired, or dismissed as in get out of my sights, sir?”

Norrell gave an exasperated flap of his hand. “Begone, man! Have my dinner ready at eight. Do not forget to salt the soup this time7. And Childermass.”

Childermass paused at the door and tilted his head to indicate that he was listening.

“Mention John Uskglass once more and I will go to great lengths to make your days miserable.” Childermass exited the study, muttering under his breath.

“As if you do not do that already, sir.”

 

 

 

_A castle burns in the distance. The Sky, pale like fine white powder, cries with the smoke and the crows that stain it. Rain falls and pools in the Earth as puddles, but all the puddles are mirrors. He can see stairs made of polished gems in each pool of water._

Childermass started awake with his pulse loud in his ears. He ran a hand over his face and shivered, feeling peculiar and unsettled. His bed was bathed in crystal moonlight, and the sky outside was a crisp clear black, like volcanic glass.

Childermass shivered again. He wondered what had come over him. A bad dream, perhaps, but something felt…off. He often felt this way upon waking in the middle of the night, but in the past the feeling had been mild. This was stronger than it had ever been—it was as if someone had put all the spit-crackles made by burning wood into a drink and had poured that drink down Childermass’s throat. His skin tingled.

_Closer, there are Trees with dark, wet wood, and from these Trees depend cages made of branch and aged vine. The Rocks urge him to come closer. One cage holds something white and he reaches out a hand to touch it. The Water screams._

Childermass was reminded of a hot day in a Yorkshire market when he had tried to make a gentleman’s purse disappear. That day seemed centuries ago, distant. But the feeling, that Childermass remembered perfectly well. He smelled it in the air: magic. Magic was being done.

Magic was being done, and it was nothing like his own perfunctory attempt at spell-work. This felt powerful, deep. Childermass looked down and noticed that his arms had broken out into gooseflesh. In a swift movement he grabbed his robe, not bothering with a candle, and left his quarters. Norrell’s study was on the floor level of the house. Two and a half months were ample time for Childermass to memorize which stairs creaked, so he began the quiet trek down. He did not notice the small black shape behind him.

_It is a piece of child’s cloth, ash-stained and smelling of clay and pumpkin. There are curious blue markings sewn into the fabric, almost like letters, but they are faded and smudged and he soon forgets they are even there. He can hear Songs, nursery rhymes, being sung in the burning castle, only they are in a language he cannot understand. Yet he knows it is the Song of the Future, of the Past, of the Present in All Dimensions._

The magic was stronger; enough to overwhelm Childermass and make him feel slightly dizzy. He grabbed the banister in an attempt to right himself. Unfortunately, it was then that the cat with the white face darted forth between Childermass’s legs. Childermass lost his balance completely, and the next thing he knew he was crumpled at the bottom of the staircase.

He must have blacked out for a moment, for when Childermass came to Ms Cauchemar was bent over him with a candle, snow-pale and praying in frantic French. Childermass tried to tell her that he was alright, but something was wrong with his back. Ms Cauchemar placed a hand over her mouth, rose, and everything went fuzzy for a while.

“For God’s sake, woman, what is all this racket?”

Childermass was brought back by the sound of footsteps and of Norrell reprimanding the maid. He would have groaned, had he the breath.

“You know I am not to be disturbed when I am in my study, so why do you—“ Norrell caught sight of Childermass and froze. His little blue eyes widened, his mouth dropped open slightly, and his color went an alarming grey. Childermass had never seen such an expression grace Norrell’s features. What a sight he must have been! He had the urge to tell Norrell about the Ash Castle on the hill, because suddenly it seemed very important that he do so.

“Leave us,” Norrell told Ms Cauchemar, sounding strangled. The maid mumbled something about Childermass never walking again or some portentous nonsense and departed with a final prayer to _le Seigneur._

“Oh dear,” muttered Norrell, kneeling down over Childermass. “Oh dear, oh dear, what a mess, oh dear…”

For what seemed like several minutes, Norrell simply surveyed Childermass with a frown. Then he did something peculiar; he closed his eyes and hovered a hand over Childermass’s chest, fingers splayed. The candle by his side sputtered once and flickered out.

Childermass felt nothing at first. Then, without warning, something _shifted_ in his back. The air had become icy, freezing, but at the same time so alive. Dimly, Childermass finally understood why the house was so cold. Magic bubbled and danced beneath his flesh, down to his very core. Several little somethings in his back and chest shifted, righted themselves, and there was no pain.

Then, as quickly as the magic came, it was gone. Norrell collapsed on his rear, minute beads of sweat shining at his temples. He was quite out of breath.

“You…you did that,” Childermass breathed. He struggled into a sitting position and regarded Norrell with something like wonder. “You did magic.”

Norrell blinked. “I frequently do,” he said. He brought out his ‘kerchief from one pocket and began dabbing at his forehead.

“In my presence,” said Childermass.

Norrell put his ‘kerchief away and jerked his right shoulder up in what Childermass suspected was a shrug. “You presented a reason to cast Pale’s Restoration and Rectification spell 8.”

At this, Childermass chuckled. “Am I supposed to show my undying gratitude and loyalty now?”

“Heavens, no,” replied Norrell, looking appalled. “I can barely tolerate you a few hours at a time. I shudder to think what would happen lest you become enamored of me and choose to follow me around day and night.”

Childermass rolled his eyes. “I do not think that likely,” he said, and rose to a standing position. His movements were graceful. Nothing cracked or hurt. “However, I do offer you my thanks.”

Norrell shuffled, embarrassed. “Duly noted, Childermass,” he said. “No go to bed. I expect you at seven-thirty sharp with my poached eggs. Do not forget the salt this time.”

“Of course, sir.” Unable to think of anything more to say, Norrell cleared his throat and parted somewhat awkwardly. Childermass pulled his robe tight around him and, with a true smile, ascended the stairs.

_The child’s cloth turns into a flower of a hundred colors. As it does, the Song fades and the castle on the hill crumbles, and the words are lost to the Clouds as the Wind pushes them to another corner of the Earth._

When Childermass returned to his quarters he discovered two drying trails down the sides of his cheeks and did not remember how they got there.

 

 

 

The next morning Childermass arrived in Norrell’s study with a plate of eggs and buttered shortbread. He was clad in tails, silver-buttoned waistcoat, and a fresh cravat, all of which made Norrell almost drop his feather quill in surprize.

“At least un-tie your hair,” exclaimed Norrell. Seeing too much of Childermass’s face seemed to unsettle him. Childermass did as he was told, letting his black hair fall around his jaw in a thick frame. He served the eggs without complaint, but saw Norrell grimace after putting one in his mouth.

“I take it something is the matter, sir.” Something was always the matter. This morning, it did not seem to bother Childermass as much as it typically would have.

“This is far too salty,” Norrell complained around his fork as Childermass poured him a cup of milk. “I do not think domestic work suits you.”

Childermass smirked. “What do you think suits me then, sir?”

Norrell swallowed. “Why not assist me in my business dealings?” he asked. “I’ll be the first to admit there is much about the goings on in society that I am daunted by. If it were up to me I would stay at home and practise magic.”

Which was what Norrell did anyway, thought Childermass. “Forgive me in saying so,” he said aloud, “but who will tend to the house? Ms Cauchemar and Mr Hanksworth are, ah, well past their prime.”

“Mr Hanksworth will soon be receiving an agreeable sum of money to retire to the country, as will Ms Cauchemar,” replied Norrell. “It is to my knowledge that Ms Cauchemar wants to instruct you in matters such as classic etiquette and French 9, so I intend to keep her around for another year. I shall hire new servants to keep the Addy boy in line.”

“So I am to be a valet?” asked Childermass.

“I should think so.” Norrell sipped his milk, regarding it with a furrowed brow. “Whatever became of that blasted cat?” he asked.

Childermass shrugged. “I have not seen it since last evening,” he replied truthfully.

“Ah, just as well, it caused nothing but trouble.”

“I can make it disappear, should it return,” Childermass offered. “Brone’s Folly should do nicely.”

Norrell gave him a dour look. “You were a thief, Childermass,” he said. “Still are, probably. Nothing in this world could possess me to teach you the proper casting of Brone’s Folly. Not even the Raven King.”

“Very well, sir,” Childermass said. Norrell continued to scowl, but there was something of a softness in his little eyes. For a moment, they seemed almost kind. Childermass bowed and departed, thinking to himself that working for Norrell could have its benefits, in the long run. A slightly cooler patch of Hell.

He could learn Brone’s Folly, along with other spells, in time. There was plenty of time. Childermass still dreamt of the King in Black on occasion, and that had to mean something.

Norrell’s words echoed in his ears as he left: _“Not even the Raven King.”_

Nothing in this world, maybe.

But Childermass knew now that there were other worlds.

 

 

  _Epilogue_

 

 

A half-moon grinned in the sky, and in its glow the white-faced cat sat atop the roof of Hurtfew Abbey. It gazed upon the house for a while, then up at the stars. One might wonder how a cat came to be in a place so high when there were no trees close enough for it to jump from, or one might not even notice the cat at all.

A gust of wind whispered, and the cat’s ears twitched. Abruptly, the cat flexed its back, curled its tail, and turned into a raven.

With a brush of wings and a single lone caw, it flew off into the night.

 

 

_End._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Footnotes:

1 Placing fogswart over one’s bed at night was said to ward off the dangers of ill dreams, dream possession, and astral projection.

2 Bartley Brone, an Irishman, was one of Martin Pale’s lesser known pupils. Dismissed by Pale after only one month, Brone claimed to have learnt the body of his magic from Leprechauns. Despite the fact that Leprechauns do not actually exist, Brone’s spells are surprisingly effective.

3 Thorndyke’s _tenues_ (“thin” in Latin) is another spell that involves subtly folding reality-fabric over an object to conceal its existence. Coincidentally, _tenues_ also means “outfits” in French, so there has often been confusion when discussing this particular spell.

4 From _Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell,_ p. 771. Lucas recites the first rule of the house to Henry Lascelles: “on no account attempt to go to the library alone, but only in the company of Mr Norrell or Childermass.” It seems that in later years Norrell trusted Childermass enough to be exempt from De Chepe’s labyrinth spell that was cast over Hurtfew Abbey.

5 _De Tractatu Magicarum Linguarum,_ a work by Martin Pale discussing magical languages.

6 Truth be told, Norrell cared little for most foods. He complained that heavy meats gave him a stomach-ache, that sweet foods prevented him from sleeping, and that dairy made him drowsy. He preferred expensive teas, breads, and soups, but was extremely picky about the flavoring and often sent them back. He never drank wine and forbid it in the house (with the exception of some sherry-wine an old neighbour had given him as a gift).

7 Preparing food was not one of Childermass’s strongest skills. A certain story comes to mind:

One August day when the humidity overwhelmed the clouds and rain fell upon Hurtfew Abbey in great wet splatters, Norrell demanded to be served square chocolate. This came as a surprize to Childermass, since Norrell cared very little for sweet foods (see footnote 6), and dismay because chocolate was a tricky business. To make chocolate one had to remove the cocoa butter and stew it for hours. Once that was finished the chocolate had to be re-boiled with flavors and dairy, and then thickened with eggs. Most people did not have the patience for it.

Childermass had never made chocolate before. He tried to convince Norrell that a boiled chicken leg would be more sustaining, but Norrell only said that he did not wish to trouble himself with all the bones. So Childermass rode into town to purchase some eggs and cocoa, all the while rainwater splashing in his eyes and trickling into his new boots. The task of preparing food was habitually left to Ms Cauchemar, but the maid was down with a grippe of sorts and Childermass only knew the bare basics of the kitchen. With some difficulty and much foul language Childermass managed to stew the chocolate and re-boil it, but he ended up mixing in curry powder instead of cinnamon. It added a rather strong flavor, much to Norrell’s dismay and Childermass’s dark humor.

Norrell never requested chocolate be made again.

8 A spell by Martin Pale to mend broken bones and physical injury. (See _Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell,_ p. 748).

9 Ms Cauchemar did manage to teach Childermass French, eventually, along with basic Latin and the proper manners of a gentleman (courtship etiquette included, much to Childermass’s horror). Childermass discarded the latter. That is to say, he chose not to use these skills, but never once did he forget them.

 


End file.
